Bible studies

When we encounter denser passages, prophetic images, or allegories that are difficult to interpret, the difficulty does not lie in the Bible itself, but in human limitation before the depth of the biblical texts.

Principles of Biblical Interpretation

“These things we also speak, not in words taught by human wisdom, but in those taught by the Holy Spirit, comparing spiritual things with spiritual things.” (1 Corinthians 2:13)

Introduction

Biblical texts convey a single meaning—that is, a communicative intention that must be sought within the text itself, its context, and the unity of Scripture. Therefore, it is mistaken to read the Bible under the pretext of “spiritualizing” what is written, as if there were a separate plane of meaning beyond the text. Scripture is, by nature, spiritual; thus, it makes no sense to speak of “making spiritual” that which is already spiritual.

When we encounter denser passages, prophetic images, or allegories that are difficult to understand, the difficulty does not lie in the Bible itself, but in human limitation before the depth of the biblical witness. Overcoming this limitation requires a responsible path: careful reading, comparison of texts, consideration of historical and literary context, and, above all, allowing Scripture itself to illuminate Scripture.

Thus, seeking the meaning of prophecies, symbols, and figures does not mean abandoning the literal sense of the text in order to reach some hidden or underlying meaning; rather, it means recognizing that biblical language employs its own genres and resources, and that its meaning is clarified by internal and coherent criteria. It is within this framework that we will present principles and methods of interpretation—biblical hermeneutics—the theological discipline devoted to correctly interpreting, understanding, and applying the Word.

Biblical Interpretation: A Skill

Considering Paul’s exhortation to Timothy, it becomes clear that biblical interpretation is not an occasional improvisation, but a skill developed throughout the Christian life—especially in those called to ministerial service. The Christian is saved by the grace of God manifested in Christ: a divine act that rescues him from subjection to sin—which brought death to all humanity—and introduces him into a new condition: a child of God and co-heir with Christ (1 John 3:1–2).

Timothy himself had been reached by this same grace when he believed the gospel. However, having been called to pastoral ministry, he needed to present himself to God as approved, free from anything that could bring him shame (2 Timothy 1:8; Romans 1:16; 1 Peter 4:16), and equipped with a specific competence: rightly handling the word of truth (2 Timothy 2:15)—a word that is a stumbling block to Jews and folly to Greeks.

This aptitude is decisive because the worker, properly speaking, must be teleios (mature, complete, fitted for the task), especially with regard to mastery of the content that shapes his message (James 3:2; Romans 6:17; Ephesians 4:14; 1 Timothy 4:16). One who stumbles in the word—that is, who cannot handle it accurately—is not qualified to defend and edify the faith, even though, as a Christian, he may stumble “in many things” in daily life.

This does not imply license for moral laxity. On the contrary, the worker must maintain a good conscience and cultivate a continuous disposition to “live honorably in all things” (Hebrews 13:18). The point is that ministerial qualification does not consist merely of general moral conduct; it includes, indispensably, the ability to serve the gospel with fidelity and clarity—that is, to rightly handle the Word.

A common misunderstanding is to suppose that biblical interpretation is a spiritual gift identical to those listed in Romans 12:6–8. Paul was appointed apostle to the Gentiles, and Peter apostle to the circumcision; these callings involved obligation and stewardship (“woe to me if I do not preach the gospel,” 1 Corinthians 9:16). Yet every steward, every minister, regardless of function, depends on the same foundation: the capacity to serve the new covenant and communicate the gospel (2 Corinthians 3:6). The issue is not who “has the gift,” but how ministry can be sustained without failing in its essential foundation: the Word.

This ability is not acquired through extended periods of devotional practice treated as substitutes for study—as if prayer, fasting, vigils, or meditation alone produced exegetical precision. Scripture points to another path: remaining in what has been learned, reading, hearing, learning, comparing text with text, and, within this discipline, the Holy Spirit guides into truth and brings to remembrance what has been learned. In this sense Paul writes:

“All Scripture is God-breathed and profitable for teaching, for reproof, for correction, and for instruction in righteousness, that the man of God may be complete, thoroughly equipped for every good work” (2 Timothy 3:16–17).

Biblical narratives themselves reinforce this principle. Cornelius was a man of prayer, yet to know the gospel it was necessary for Peter to proclaim it to him. The Ethiopian eunuch, even after worship at the temple, required Philip to explain the Scriptures. Faith comes through hearing, and hearing through the Word; it is through contact with the sacred writings that God makes a person wise unto salvation.

Thus, upon believing, the Christian receives the “sword of the Spirit,” that is, the Word of God; and by handling it daily, he develops discernment and maturity. This continual practice is indispensable, especially for those entrusted with defending the gospel (Philippians 1:16; Jude 1:3), because ministry demands more than sincerity—it requires fidelity in content and precision in expression.

In Timothy’s case, there was an additional concern: he was to avoid false teachings—“profane and old wives’ fables,” referring to Judaizing doctrines—and to exercise himself in godliness, that is, in alignment with the gospel (1 Timothy 4:7–8). The “gift” received through prophecy and the laying on of hands referred to his ministerial charge—the responsibility of pastoral oversight he already exercised, particularly in Ephesus (1 Timothy 1:3; 1:18).

For Christians generally, Paul exhorts them to be “filled with the Spirit,” which expresses itself through the communal circulation of the Word in psalms, hymns, and spiritual songs (Ephesians 5:18–19; Colossians 3:16). Thus, fullness of the Spirit is not disorderly ecstasy, but a community saturated with the gospel—teaching, exhorting, and orienting itself according to Christ rather than being led astray by doctrinal influences that produce confusion and division.

Hermeneutical Principles

As already stated, it is a distortion to interpret Scripture under the pretext of “spiritualizing” its narratives, parables, or teachings, as if the text required elevation to some higher plane in order to make sense. Scripture is spiritual by nature. To say that Scripture is spiritual does not mean that it contains hidden mystical meanings accessible only through esoteric keys; rather, it means that its origin, purpose, and efficacy derive from God.

The New Testament is spiritual because Christ himself declares: “The words that I speak to you are spirit and life” (John 6:63). This connects directly with Isaiah’s prophecy that the Spirit of the Lord would rest upon the Messiah (Isaiah 61:1; Luke 4:17–21), fulfilling the promise that God would pour out His Spirit upon all flesh (Joel 2:29), through the one promised to Abraham: “in you all the families of the earth shall be blessed” (Genesis 12:3).

A fundamental hermeneutical principle is recognizing that even when Scripture employs symbols, parables, metaphors, or typologies, these point to objective truths grounded in reality. They do not authorize arbitrary multiplication of meanings. Differences in interpretation often arise not from the text itself, but from the interpretive lens applied to it.

Jesus addressed precisely this issue when He rebuked those who searched the Scriptures believing they possessed life in them, while failing to recognize that the Scriptures testified of Him (John 5:39). The promise to Abraham referred not to many descendants collectively, but specifically to one—Christ (Galatians 3:16).

Thus, faithful Christian theology seeks the meaning intended by Scripture itself. The events described are presented as real: Eden, the ark, the crossing of the Red Sea, the resurrection of Christ. Faith rests not on symbolic invention, but on trust in what God has revealed.

For example, the term “fruit” may refer literally to agricultural produce (Deuteronomy 1:25) or figuratively to the “fruit of lips,” that is, words of praise or confession (Hebrews 13:15; Isaiah 57:19). The meaning is determined not by arbitrary imagination, but by biblical usage and context.

Similarly, when Paul uses the allegory of Sarah and Hagar, he does not dissolve history into metaphor, but uses the allegory to clarify a present reality: those born according to promise face opposition from those who rely on the flesh. The allegory clarifies reality; it does not replace it.

Thus, the central question of interpretation is not how many meanings can be extracted, but how faithfully the interpreter reads—according to the text, its context, and its intended purpose.

Metaphors, Hyperbole, and Allegory

Biblical writers made extensive use of figures of speech, especially metaphor. A metaphor establishes an implicit comparison, transferring meaning from one term to another based on perceived similarity, thereby making the message more vivid and memorable.

For example, when Psalm 23 states, “The Lord is my shepherd,” the metaphor communicates an objective truth: God’s care and guidance. Likewise, when Jesus says, “I am the door” (John 10:9), the metaphor clearly communicates that He is the only access to God.

Literal interpretation does not mean crude materialism; it means discerning the author’s intended meaning, whether expressed through narrative or imagery. Even when the language is figurative, the truth communicated is real and grounded in historical and theological reality.

When Paul writes that “faith came” (Galatians 3:23–24), he uses metaphor to describe the historical manifestation of faith through Christ’s coming and the revelation of the gospel. The figure strengthens the argument, but refers to an actual historical event: the incarnation and inauguration of the new covenant.

Another important point: the Bible does not set out to be a treatise in modern scientism. Expressions such as “the four corners of the earth” are not intended to debate the planet’s geometry, but to communicate—within the linguistic horizon of ancient readers—the idea of “the whole extent,” “all directions.” If the author were to employ future scientific language, it would be imprecise for his audience. In the same way, laws concerning impurity and foods do not presuppose microbiology; they deal with separation, worship, and a pedagogical order within the economy of the covenant.

For this very reason, an allegorical method—understood as attributing hidden meanings to narrative details, often beyond (or against) the author’s intention—tends to generate errors. To assign “spiritual” significance to Naaman’s immersions, the cloak of the healed blind man, the tree Zacchaeus climbed, or the stone at Lazarus’s tomb, as though every detail were a code, is not interpretation; it is invention when the text itself gives no warrant.

When Scripture uses allegory legitimately, it typically controls the meaning. In Matthew 16, for example, Jesus speaks of the “leaven of the Pharisees,” and the text clarifies that He meant their doctrine; the symbol is not left unanchored. The same holds in apostolic allegories: the meaning is given, not projected.

One may ask why biblical texts resort to allegories and parables instead of limiting themselves to a strictly denotative grammar. In many cases, such linguistic resources are employed to produce impact, to aid the retention of teaching in the hearers’ memory, and to condense complex truths into simple, striking images. This helps explain, as well, how the message could be preserved and later recorded faithfully, as in the Gospels.

Moreover, in certain contexts figurative language also functions as a way of preserving the integrity of what is transmitted: what is not immediately understood is less easily distorted, instrumentalized, or attacked by those who reject the message. Thus, allegory does not replace truth; it communicates it more effectively—and often more protectively.

For example, the book of Proverbs, attributed to Solomon, is composed of wisdom sayings that at first glance seem merely to gather moral lessons and practical counsel for life. Yet, upon closer examination, one may perceive that behind this pedagogical form the text also sustains a denunciation of apostasy and religious deviation.

In this sense, Proverbs employs recurring figures—such as the naïve young man and the adulterous woman—to represent, at a deeper level, the dynamics of spiritual seduction. The adulterous woman need not be read only as a literal character, but also as a portrait of unfaithful religiosity that installs itself “in the city,” seeks adherents, and captures consciences through persuasive words. In Proverbs 7:14, for instance, the mention of “paying vows” introduces a vocabulary of worship and religious obligation, suggesting that the text is not dealing merely with carnal desire, but also with a corrupted form of religious service that attracts the unsuspecting through rhetoric and an appearance of piety.

This reading does not amount to an arbitrary allegorization, as though it were legitimate to assign hidden meanings to any detail whatsoever. Rather, it is a matter of recognizing internal evidence and thematic coherence that point to a precise critique of false religion—a critique so well crafted that it can go unnoticed precisely by those who reduce the book to a manual of moral advice. Moreover, this line of reading is consistent with the prophetic pattern of the Old Testament, in which Israel’s spiritual unfaithfulness is denounced through the imagery of prostitution: “How the faithful city has become a prostitute!” (Isaiah 1:21), and Ezekiel’s extended metaphors of the “woman” who corrupts herself (Ezekiel 16:35) reinforce the same symbolic register.

In other cases, a book gathers multiple figures to portray a truth on a broader scale. In the Old Covenant, Israel is often presented as a flock in need of the Shepherd’s care, while hostile peoples are described as beasts of the field—lion, bear, leopard—images that convey threat, oppression, and predation. Revelation, in turn, concentrates this kind of language into dense visions: the figure of the prostitute and the beast (Revelation 17) forms a symbolic tableau in which an apostate reality leans upon a wide political power—a conglomerate of nations—and for a time feels secure under its protection.

Interpreting the Scriptures

What the interpreter must seek is the author’s original intention—that is, the meaning the text aims to communicate within its context. A clear example of this principle appears in Christ’s temptation. The tempter challenges Jesus to turn stones into bread and then to throw Himself from the pinnacle of the temple as “proof” that He is the Son of God, quoting Scripture (Psalm 91) as though it authorized a spectacular and presumptuous act.

Jesus’ response is decisive for hermeneutics: He does not “spiritualize” the text nor contradict it; rather, He interprets it in the light of other Scriptures, correcting the abusive use of the Psalm. Hence His words, “it is also written”—“Man shall not live by bread alone,” and “You shall not put the Lord your God to the test.” In this way, Jesus shows that correct reading does not consist in isolating a verse to justify an action, but in understanding Scripture by Scripture, honoring its purpose and its limits.

To interpret, therefore, is not to strain the text to serve one’s own aims. Jesus could indeed have turned stones into bread; yet doing so there would have meant using power to evade ordinary human conditions, whereas the established principle is that human life is sustained along the common path—“by the sweat of his face.” Likewise, God promised protection to Christ, but to provoke the need for that protection by presumptuous initiative is not trust; it is self-endangerment. And Scripture offers no support for such a posture.

There is, then, a difference between being kept in the course of obedience and forcing a promise to justify recklessness. Jesus promised authority “over serpents and scorpions,” and Paul was preserved when, in a simple necessity (gathering firewood), he was bitten by a viper. But this is very different from deliberately taking vipers in one’s hands while invoking protection to demonstrate “spiritual power.” In that case, it is not obedience but spectacle—promise turned into pretext.

The same applies to certain “highly personal” readings of narratives. Peter walked on the water because he was called to it by Christ in a specific circumstance. To turn that episode into a rule for “proving” authority or spirituality is to displace the text from its purpose and use it as an instrument of self-affirmation. It replaces biblical logic—obedience, dependence, sobriety—with the logic of display.

Even miracle narratives must be read with a didactic purpose, not as an automatic promise of protection from life’s afflictions. When Jesus mentions the widow of Zarephath and Naaman the leper, He is not teaching a “technique” for obtaining miracles or offering a shortcut around suffering. He highlights the pedagogical meaning of the text: God’s sovereignty to act where He wills, and the reality that “a prophet is not accepted in his own hometown” (Luke 4:24–27). The focus is not the wonder itself, but the instruction communicated by the wonder within its context. Therefore, to use such texts as a basis for promising miraculous interventions at every hardship is to divert the narrative’s purpose—especially since Scripture itself affirms that “in the world you will have tribulation.”

Within this framework, it is important to note that neither Jesus nor the apostles were authorized to “invent” meanings. As the Son, Jesus spoke only what the Father had commanded Him:

“For I have not spoken on my own authority; but the Father who sent me has himself given me a commandment—what to say and what to speak. And I know that his commandment is eternal life. What I say, therefore, I say as the Father has told me.” (John 12:49–50)

Likewise, Paul states that he did not set out to innovate with novelties, but to proclaim what had already been announced “in the Law and the Prophets” (Acts 26:22–23). And when he says he dealt with “spiritual things,” this does not mean that he received daily private instructions as though God whispered new phrases into his ear. The core of what he preached was the testimony of Christ: the Corinthians were “enriched” with “all speech” and “all knowledge” of the gospel, so that “they lacked no gift” (1 Corinthians 1:5–6). Though Paul possessed extensive education and the resources of human wisdom, he resolved to proclaim nothing but Christ crucified—an offense to Jews and folly to Greeks—so that his message would be a “demonstration of Spirit and power,” that is, an attestation of Christ, the life-giving Spirit (1 Corinthians 2:4).

Therefore, when Paul says that he spoke “in words taught by the Holy Spirit,” he also clarifies the method: comparing spiritual things with spiritual things. If the words of Christ are “spirit and life,” and if the Law, the Psalms, and the Prophets testify to these same realities, then the safest way to learn to interpret Scripture is to let Scripture govern its own meaning, keeping the text within its purpose and unity:

“And we impart this in words not taught by human wisdom but taught by the Spirit, interpreting spiritual truths to those who are spiritual.” (1 Corinthians 2:13)